


The Serpents Killed the Dinosaurs

by alexandritemoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Harry Potter AU, Harry Potter Crossover - Freeform, TW- violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:49:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandritemoon/pseuds/alexandritemoon
Summary: At the start of the 1989 term, Heather Chandler was newly sixteen and gorgeous, with flowing blonde curls and long willowy legs. Her popularity was completely unrivaled in Slytherin House and nearly the entire rest of Hogwarts, and the fear she commanded was absolute.At the start of the 1989 term, Veronica Sawyer was nearly seventeen, top of her class, and, socially, at Heather Chandler’s mercy. The thing was, she was beginning not to care.aka the Harry Potter/Heathers crossover of my dreams





	The Serpents Killed the Dinosaurs

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and thank you for reading. This takes elements from both the original movie and the musical. Hope you enjoy~

“Veronica Sawyer.”

The brunette eleven year-old walked up to the stool and let Professor McGonagall place the patchy hat on her head. More than six minutes passed, and the professors began to shoot glances at one another. She was a Hatstall, the first one in nearly fifty years.

After two more nail-biting minutes, the hat called out “SLYTHERIN!”

Professor Snape’s mouth betrayed a thin smirk of satisfaction, while McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick all looked like they had bitten into a particularly sour lemon.

At the Slytherin table there was scattered applause. Veronica’s mother, Winnie, had been a Hufflepuff mostly known for her food Charms that had gone and married a Muggle. A half-blood in their midst would be tolerated, not welcomed. Snape felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for the first-year. Surely she would be lonely. He'd have to see how talented she was at potions.

At the far end of the Slytherin table, an expressionless Jason Dean was ecstatic. They had shared a compartment on the train, though their interactions had been minimal- she had been reading the entire time, and he had been unwilling to interrupt her and pulled out a book of his own. He admitted to himself that the idea of having a friend fascinated him. Perhaps they could study together?

“Hi, I'm Heather,” he heard a girl say to Veronica as soon as she sat down. Within minutes she was swallowed by a cluster of three girls, all of whom were obviously intrigued by her Hatstall status. Vultures, every one of them. Worst of all, Veronica seemed not to mind them.

Jason Dean resolved that he would find greener pastures. This was Hogwarts, right? It had to be better than living with his dad. Maybe he would check out some books on the Dark Arts at Hogwarts’ Great Library. Those sounded fun.

\------  
“Wingardium Leviosa! Wing-”

“No, Heather, you’re doing it wrong. Let me show you,” Heather Chandler commanded, almost snatching the feather off of Heather McNamara’s desk. She brandished her wand, swishing and flicking as instructed.

Heather’s feather rose maybe half an inch off the desk.

“Heather, it’s your turn, in case you forgot,” Chandler said with entirely too much self-satisfaction.

Heather Duke took a deep breath and successfully cast the spell, her feather hovering about an inch over Chandler’s.

Chandler glared at her. The feather dropped.  
\----  
It was the Friday before Easter break in his second year. J.D. stood in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office clutching a strangled crow and a broken Muggle radio. Professor McGonagall stood next to the Headmaster looking like she wanted to hex someone’s bollocks off.

“I took away House Points, as a warning, but, in a FLAGRANT violation of school rules, Mr. Dean used the Dark Arts in my Transfiguration classroom! On a transfigured Muggle object, no less! What detention could I give, what punishment could I possibly prescribe-”

“I’ll leave,” said J.D. This was the only way he could think of to fix the problem. A childhood of being shipped around from Edinburgh to Surrey to Cardiff had taught him that.

“Mr. Dean, that is no way to speak to your-”

“No, Headmaster. I’ll leave. I really think that I need to contemplate the emotional events that led me to the Dark Arts. I don't think I can continue my magical education without a period of self-reflection.” J.D. knew from school counselors that all you had to do was look contrite and hang your head in shame. Adults ate that stuff up. Besides, even for all his knowledge, Dumbledore was like most people: he saw what he wanted to see.

Sure enough, the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall looked impressed. “What mature insight from someone your age, Mr. Dean,” Professor Dumbledore said. “Such self-knowledge is not normally what we expect from second years. Very well, you may go home for Easter break. You may take half a term for your… sabbatical, so to speak, then when you feel you have properly understood the weight of your actions you may return to Hogwarts.” His blue eyes twinkled with thinly veiled amusement.

“Thank you, Professor,” J.D. said, trying to bring a little crack into his voice. Even McGonagall looked mollified. As she escorted him out of the Headmaster’s Office, J.D. thought about how far he could run. He certainly wasn't going back to his dad. Maybe international travel was in order.

Perhaps Germany, he thought. I've always wanted to learn to speak German. Yes, Germany would be perfecto.  
\-------  
Lake-filtered moonlight slanted into the Slytherin dormitory. Veronica tossed and turned, Heather Chandler’s cruel voice echoing in her head.

She dreamt of a scene from two years ago, where Chandler had humiliated a defenseless Martha Dunnstock by Charming her yellow Hufflepuff robes to flash pink and oink constantly. When that wasn't enough, she had blackmailed a Hufflepuff girl to Vanish Martha’s underwear, then chucked her books onto the Quidditch pitch on a particularly windy day. But now, Heather was the wind, her perfect face splintered and spread into the air itself.

  
Martha’s look of utter helplessness and despair had seared itself into her mind. They were fifth years now, and Veronica could not count the amount of times she had aided Heather’s malice for fear that Heather’s anger would be turned on her.

“Why did you do it, Heather? Why did you do it?” she screamed into the wind of red lips and glowing baby-blue eyes lined with false lashes.

The Heather in her dream laughed, a thousand red mouths opening at once. “Isn't it obvious, Veronica? Because I could.”

Veronica sat bolt upright in bed and stifled a scream, a little breath escaping her mouth. She groped for her diary on the bedside table, fumbling with the magical lock she had affixed to it.

“Wha’s wrong, V’ron’ca?” MacNamara slurred, half-asleep.

“Nothing, Heather. Go back to sleep.”

MacNamara complied. The Giant Squid floated serenely past the window, unaware of and untroubled by the social machinations of the students on the other side of the cold glass.

Veronica believed she was beginning to envy a squid.  
\-------  
Yegard Sørenson felt himself profoundly out of luck. It was Quidditch practice season, flowers dotting the Swedish mountains, bright open sky tempting him for miles in every direction. Yet here he was firmly on the ground, panting and huffing his way up a steep hill in his impractical school uniform to deliver a message from Headmaster Karkaroff. This was- what do the ikki-veivisere say? - above his pay grade.

“Yason,” he called semi-futilely to the silhouetted figure above him. Was the man still wearing his stupid British longcoat in this weather? What a drama queen.

There was no response.

“Yason!” Yegard choked, out of breath.

“I heard you the first time, Sørenson,” Jason Dean said coolly in English-accented Swedish. He barely even turned to acknowledge Yegard, much less help him up the hill. After another minute or so, Yegard’s booted foot finally made solid purchase with the spring-muddy ground parallel to the incline. There was a moment of silence as the poor man caught his breath.

“Yason, the Headmaster has reviewed your father’s letter.” Yegard spotted a transparently illegal not-for-Quidditch broom tossed casually to Jason’s side. So that was how the bastard had gotten up the damn hill. “He has determined that according to International Magical Law-”

“-my father doesn't fall under the jurisdiction of-”

Yegard ignored him. “-according to International Magical Law, your father has the power to recall you to Britain, especially following the death of your self-appointed guardian.”

Jason Dean spat and swore in three different Germanic languages. Yegard pretended not to hear- Jason’s contempt for others was contagious. He wasn't going to rat him out about the broom, though. He had heard about what happened to the last three people who had crossed Jason.

“When do I pack?”

“As soon as possible.” In spite of himself, a tiny trickle of compassion for the scowling wizard found its way into Yegard’s heart. “It was nice to have you here in Sweden, my friend. You were certainly an excellent stude-”

“Here. You should be able to get down faster.” Jason shoved his crude broom into Yegard’s chest, patted it twice, and began skidding, heedlessly and gracelessly, down the hill. Yegard didn't stay to watch.

What an odd boy, he thought. What a pity he had to leave.  
\-------  
At the start of the 1989 term, Heather Chandler was newly sixteen and gorgeous, with flowing blonde curls and long willowy legs. Her popularity was completely unrivaled in Slytherin House and nearly the entire rest of Hogwarts, and the fear she commanded was absolute.

At the start of the 1989 term, Veronica Sawyer was nearly seventeen, top of her class, and, socially, at Heather Chandler’s mercy. The thing was, she was beginning not to care.

Quill in hand, Veronica mused on how often Heather had claimed to represent Real Life. Real Life, Heather asserted, sucked losers dry. If you wanted to fuck with eagles, you had to learn how to fly.

The irony of the thoroughly Slytherin Chandler citing the Ravenclaw mascot aside, Veronica wrote, Heather seemed to have an aura of hawkish malevolence that hung around her, a flower-wilting presence that had made jealous Duke start experimenting with vomit-inducing potions and MacNamara acquiesce to her every whim. She had the power to give, the power to take; she had the power to plunge a person into a fate worse than permanent social invisibility. Heather had given Veronica a lot of prestige and power that would not normally be afforded to a half-blood. The fact that she was going to that super-exclusive party in Hogsmeade was proof. But she had also taken, taken from Veronica in a way that could not be-

“Veronica.” MacNamara jolted her diary with one knee, causing her wet ink to skitter across the page. “Heather says to haul ass to the Great Hall, pronto.”

“Merlin’s ballsack, Heather, you messed up my-”

“She says it’s very important,” Duke reinforced.

Her dreams for an uninterrupted lunch as useless as Professor Snape’s hope for silky hair, Veronica reluctantly closed her diary and followed Heathers Duke and MacNamara into the chaos of the Great Hall. Heather Chandler sat near the head of the Slytherin table, holding court.

Veronica tried to quantify what it was that had kept Heather’s reign unquestioned for so long. She cut an imposing figure, and her beauty seemed to be an objective fact. Unlike Duke or MacNamara, Heather didn't follow fashion trends, Muggle or magical. She kept her cascading curls of blonde hair tied back with a black silk ribbon, intimidating in its simplicity. She had worn her immaculate red lipstick since age fourteen, the bright crimson popping excellently against her creamy pale skin. No wonder all the boys wanted her. Here Veronica was again at her side, and no matter how much she told herself she wasn't going to do Heather’s bidding, she knew she was. Long live the queen.

“Veronica,” she drawled. “Finally.” She slid a piece of parchment across the table as if she were a Muggle broker closing a deal. “I need you to forge a hot and horny but realistically low-key note in Ram’s handwriting to give to Martha Dungslop.”

“Morgana’s tit, Heather, I don't have anything against Martha Dunnstock. Didn't you decide to stop dealing with her?”

“Oh, come on. You don't have anything for her either. It's an act of charity, Veronica. It'll give her vibrating soap masturbation material for weeks. She’ll think a Quidditch player wants to fuck her! It’ll be brilliant.” She smirked, eminently pleased with herself, and Veronica knew there was no way she was getting out of this.

“Veronica needs something to write on. Heather, bend over.”

“I could just write on the table,” Veronica protested sensibly, but Heather Duke had already bent over.

In mocking, overly dulcet tones, Chandler dictated the note. Veronica regretted every stroke of the quill. Before the ink had dried, MacNamara grabbed the paper with a quick pinch of her thumb and forefinger and transformed it into an origami butterfly that discreetly winged its way across the Hall, sliding inconspicuously onto Martha’s spot at the Hufflepuff table.

“This is the part I hate most,” said Chandler. “The waiting. Four minutes until total humiliation.”

Veronica could take it no longer. “I need to go get a package,” she mumbled, wheeling her legs around to get off the bench.

Just then, an almost archetypal tall dark stranger strode by her, robe flapping, and took a seat at the far end of the table. He looked vaguely familiar; Veronica couldn't place him, but he was bloody gorgeous. His eyes, more than his lanky frame or tousled hair, seemed knowing, calculating, but in a way that didn't seem openly malevolent so much as incredibly sexy. He half-hid, half-carried a black leather-bound book with gold Cyrillic writing under his coat. Veronica could just make out a skull insignia peeking out, death subtly winking at her.

“God, Veronica, drool much?” Chandler was, as usual, mocking her. Veronica bit her tongue as her eyes followed him across the room.

“His name is Jason Dean. He’s in my History of Magic Class. I thought he got expelled, like, in second year,” Duke murmured a bit more sympathetically.

“He didn't get expelled, stupid,” said Chandler. “He just went to Durmstrang for a few years.”

“Why’s he back?” Veronica asked.

Duke shrugged. “You tell me.”

Martha took that moment to open the note. Her fingers trembled as her eyes scanned the pages. She choked a little on her breath. Was that- was that a tear in her eye? Veronica wondered.

She stood up, as if gathering her courage. The three Heathers, Chandler especially, watched with malicious, fizzing anticipation. Veronica stood like a dead log beside then, forcing herself to feel every ounce of dread and shame. I did this, she thought. This was me.

As if it wasn't possible for the feeling to get any worse, Martha, newly poised with a smile across her broad features, got up and strode over to the Slytherin table. She tapped Ram on the shoulder.

The whole thing played out like a pantomime. Ram, mouth bursting with shepherd’s pie, turned around. When he saw Martha, his face contorted into an expression of disgust. He took a swig of his pumpkin juice to wash it down, then spewed it all over the floor in a spit-take as Martha gingerly showed him the note, mumbling something about how she liked him, too. Guffaws rose from the jocks like poisonous soap bubbles. The laughter spread across the Slytherin table, and getting the most enjoyment out of it all was Heather Chandler, who looked like her birthday had come early. Even her laughter was calculated to be delicate and feminine, but the look in her eyes was one of triumph.

Martha, of course, was destroyed. She fled the hall, fighting back sobs. For good measure, Heather Duke subtly oinked as she passed.

Veronica could not bring herself to meet Martha’s eyes.

In the shadow of the back of the table, J.D. snapped his book shut. He was not laughing either. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are of course appreciated.


End file.
